


Scenes from a Marriage

by letsallchant



Category: Law and Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: Angst, F/M, Jealousy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-17
Updated: 2010-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:35:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsallchant/pseuds/letsallchant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watch as Robert Goren's life crumbles around him. A mediation of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from a Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> Set during season 6 aka "The season of the man-angst" (second only to season 7). There are also time jumps, just so you know.

He receives the bottle of Glenfiddich a day after his mothers funeral.

* * *

 

"So um, Ross says to take all the time you need."

All she receives in response is his hand rubbing his forehead and the view of his back as he turns away from her. His body language shunning either her, or the statement. Probably both.

Dead silence permeates the air, lingering through the darkness, making the environment even more polarizing than before.

A man grieves alone. It's one of those generalizations that happens to be sad, but true. It's the way the metaphorical cookie crumbles. Man crumbles, there's nothing you can do about it but stand there and watch.

The door clangs shut behind her, taking what little light there was with her.

* * *

 

Keith Mannings is tall, wiry, in his 40's and beginning to go bald. It's tragic really. He has the look of someone who used to be a Big Deal, but now is mostly mediocre in both appearance and personality. He's not used to working for things, and seems to be unaware and frustrated when the outcome doesn't go his way. So he wanders around like a lost puppy, or the living embodiment of Charlie Brown: confused, looking for approval everywhere and anywhere.

"Hey Alex!....ALEX!"

Mannings is met with a slight confused glare as she covers her free ear, desperately attempting to listen to whoever is on the other end of the receiver.

Thompson busts up laughing.

"Oh, yeah, you got 'mad game' all right."

"Shut up.'

"You need to market that 'cause that's some good shit right there. You got her eating out the palm of your motherfuckin' hand."

"Fuck off." Mannings stomps off, recovering by conferring with a fellow CSU.

"Now there goes a maja playa!"

Goren suppresses the urge to laugh before Ramirez practically flies over, emitting silent rage. Her tone is clipped and startling, not unlike a door slamming shut.

"Look, we got some serious work to do today. Sanders is going to have our ass if we don't get this shit done and quick. So do us all a favor, get to work and stop harassing the detectives."

"Damn, chill, and it wasn't me that was doing the harassing."

Ramirez raises her hand, ignoring him.

Goren suddenly wishes both Ramirez and Thompson were on the job during the Strauss case.

* * *

"So how exactly does a cochlear implant work?"

"Well, it's a surgical procedure, it's risky. They implant it, and there's no guarantee that--

"Actually," an earnest pip-squeak voice pipes up. Goren suspects Peter Lyons was captain of the debate team. And possibly chess club. Maybe even president of the Young Republicans Club, completing the Pointdextor trifecta.

"...with careful selection of candidates, the risks are very low."

Eames looks up, and he swerves in, moving into the available space between them, like a man unexpectedly cutting into a couple on the dance floor. He drones on about microphones, speech processors, and charitable Taiwanese philanthropists, occasionally getting himself all worked up, switching between passionate and sanctimonious.

Ten minutes into Lyons one man monologue and Goren doesn't understand how Eames could be so interested in what this walking, talking public service ad has to say. But she is. And as they all walk to the car he's lagging behind the two of them as if he's the lame third wheel who just doesn't get the hint, the best friend that just _had_ to tag along on a date. There is obviously something very, very wrong with this picture.

And so the pattern is set. Lyons has found his in, and like any intelligent man, he has run with it. It would be cute if it wasn't so effective.

Things go pretty much the same way over the next few days. They show up to question Dr. Rivera, and that weaselly asshole just happens to be there by accident. When they come out of the doctors office, he's still there as if waiting on them...or more specifically _her_. Peter swoops like a crow moving in on roadkill heading in at just the right moment so as to walk alongside her, leaving him to walk alone behind them. Eames says she's going to get coffee after Larry Forseca's disastrous interview, and Lyons invites himself along. Goren counters this ten minutes later with bringing up the deaf rights rally to Ross, thus leading their boss to break up their impromptu date. Lyons counter-counters this with buying her skittles unsolicited. He admits Lyons is pretty crafty. He almost has to give him his admiration. He was a much smoother operator than his Alfred E. Neuman appearance would suggest.

As far as he was concerned they didn't really need Lyons. If he could just give himself a small refresher course he could do the interviews himself. But all of this proves fruitless as by the time he's accomplished this the case is pretty much done. He feels proud of himself though. At the end of it all Bobby is exhausted.

As he's walking to the breakroom, he stops shortly just before entering, hearing familiar voices:

"There's a nice place on Forrest Avenue. I could take you there if you want."

_Yeah right, his ass he could 'take her there'._

"I don't know.... I never know when I'm going to have time off. Work has been pretty crazy lately."

She has the stiff tone of someone trying gently let the other down. It's a tone Goren knows well. He should know, he's used it many times himself.

"It's a great place Alexandra, it would be a shame for you not to see it."

There's a long stretch of silence. Goren relishes it, then decides it's time to put Lyons out of his misery and then...

"Ok. I'll-uh, just give you my card and you can call me."

Peter Lyons, 5-6; Robert Goren 1-6. KO. Game over

He doesn't know if they're still dating. He suspects not, but he can't be too sure. There seems to be a wildfire spreading throughout all areas of his life, so he's not surprised that this area has gone up in smoke too. He tells himself he's not jealous, he just doesn't think Lyons is good enough for Eames. Really, he doesn't think he's envious, even though the thought of Lyons' (surely) pencil thin dick in his partner is enough to warrant another dose of tagamet.

 

* * *

 

It's been 4 years since he got laid.

Her name was Mindy Jansen. Redheaded (natural), bright, friendly, and didn't ask for too much. She worked in accounts, and wore mismatched socks on laundry days.

She was fond of him, thought he was brilliant, and occasionally attempted to spar with him on various subjects she had looked up the internet previously before, like a more charming Elisabeth Hasselbeck. The sex was good and she was open minded.

But there was almost a revulsion he felt of her and of himself. You can't love someone you don't respect. And he couldn't respect either of them. She was clingy, oblivious to his apathy, and wanted him to do couple things with her, like meet with her parents and go with her on week-long vacations, but it was too much too fast for him. She overwhelmed him, calling him when he was catching cases or interviewing witnesses. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, but he really wanted no part of this life she seemed to already be planning for them. He suspected if she could bottle him up she would. After many unsubtle hints about the way he felt, she finally let go.

"You actually don't _care_ about me do you? You've never cared, just get the fuck out of here and don't come back!"

It was music to his ears.

It was then when he wondered if he couldn't respect anyone who loved him.

 

* * *

 

His thoughts uncomfortably turn to a more lurid time after his mother's funeral.

"Eames, I know I haven't said it, but thank you for coming. And just...." he trails off, gesturing with his hands.

"It was nothing. Just let me know if you need anything. Um, I'll be home all weekend. So you can always call me...if you want."

She's cutely awkward, and it's endearing to him, she's unaware that it's making him want hold her hostage in his arms and take her to his apartment for a good eternity. Or at least a week.

But he nods, and they stand there, both wanting to do something, but doing nothing. She turns to go to her car, but stops, turns on her heel. In a surprise move that both shocks him: she hugs him.

It's almost comical how she barely envelopes him. It's like watching a cat trying to hug a bear, but she gives it her all, as he feels the fruit of all the weight training she's done over the years. It's surreal and it thrills him despite the circumstances of it. Then she speaks into his chest and makes it worse.

"I couldn't just leave you without doing this. I'm sorry." She sounds sheepish and apologetic, as if the hug is more for her benefit than his.

He smiles into her hair, finally wrapping his arms around her. He can smell the clean scent of her shampoo, and the hint of a powdery, spicy perfume. He makes out notes of lotus, tiger lily, wood, and jasmine. Sometimes he thinks he missed his calling as a master perfumer. If he could bottle her up, he would.

He loves the way she's holding him, and the way she feels underneath his grasp, all soft, warm, alive and everything he finds desirable in a woman. He feels the urge to pick her up and take to the nearest car, lift up her dress and lose himself in her. He feels ashamed, aware of how ridiculous and wrong it is. He suspects it's almost Oedipal in its way. She unconditionally takes care of him, scolds him when he needs it, basically fulfilling a void, and he wants to fulfill her in...other ways.

Finally, as if aware of how long they've been hugging and how many people that could see them, they break apart.

"Take care of yourself Bobby, and I meant what I said, if you need anything..." she gestures roundly, as if mimicking the world.

"Thank you," he says, giving her a small wave as she walks backwards, before turning and getting into her car.

They both know he won't call.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, I just wanted to see how you're doing."

"I'm doing a little better, taking it day by day, but I have to say, I can't wait to get out of here, I think I just ate something that wasn't quite meat last night, and seasoned with Mrs. Dash as a cover-up. Possibly the bastard child of a boot and chicken."

"Work misses you."

"More like the paperwork misses me."

"Hey, I do my share."

"...said no one."

"I think you're getting well Eames."

They laugh.

"Well, Dr. Goren, come check me out."

"You've only got, what, two days left right?"

"That's what they say. I hope anyway. I'm about the climb the walls. There's nothing to do. For one thing, the channel selection leaves a lot to be desired. Did you know there's such a thing as religious cable?"

He hears her impatiently sigh against the phone, tickling his ears.

He shows up after work with 2 books of crossword puzzles, The New York Post, the newest Vanity Fair, People, Entertainment Weekly, and copy of The Kite Runner. He really doesn't know what she would want to read, he's mostly just seen her reading newspapers and glossy magazines, so he gives her all genres.

"Bobby, you didn't have to do all of this, geez, I feel like it's Christmas." she says, thumbing through his purchases as he watches her intently.

He finds it amazing that she's so resilient. 4 days after being kidnapped and tortured (he doesn't know exactly what happened to her, but he suspects.... and pushes it away) and she's lit up, like, well, a kid at Christmas. Nonetheless, he cringes with her when a nurse comes through, slinging the curtain open before checking the progress on her head wound.

She stayed with her parents for about a week afterward, and he called her every other day, talking, yet avoiding the unspeakable. What she doesn't know, is that he'd been calling from the hospital.

His mother's Lymphoma had gotten worse. After the surgery late last year, she'd refused treatment, but in rare moment for her, she actually listened to Bobby. Of course, this only happened after weeks of nagging and negotiation.

So he played the waiting game, if she would improve, or worsen. He kept the phone close by, nearly jumping at the first ring, bracing himself, not knowing whether to be disappointed or relieved when he see's it's not the hospital number on the ID. When she does call....well, let's just say his ulcer has grown about 1 inch with every phone call. He's pretty sure that her illness will kill him.

 

* * *

 

"You want to throw it all away? Just, I know--"

"Back off."

He tries not to look at her glowering form as the doors encase him.

He feels that familiar burning pang, threatening to expose him. It tastes of blood and metal. Luckily he makes it to the bathroom in time to purge it from his system. As he flushes the toilet, seeing it all disappear in a swirl, he wishes all aspects of life could be this simple: something bothers you, you get it out of your system and swoosh! it's gone. Truth be told, he's attempted to live most of his life this way, but life just doesn't cooperate. Really though, not even the corporeal lives by these rules. The body itself screws up sometimes, cells getting confused, finally giving up, finally deciding to do more harm than good and attack it's host.

His mother was living proof of that. His stunt from 10 minutes ago was proof of that.

He walks around, breathing in the crisp fall air, watching the cars go by, taking morbid pleasure in what everyone would do if he were to just jump out and end it all. Would they be even be anguished? Ross would probably be disturbed at first, but secretly relieved. His mom would either finally crack for good, the stress of it all throwing her condition into a final episode, or be annoyed at his weak cowardice, wondering where the hell Frank is. After all, he's the good one, _the scientist._

Would Eames be sad? She wouldn't be surprised, she's probably seen this coming for years, judging from those frightened, pitiful looks she's given him, they seem to be appearing more and more these days, irritating him with every appearance, like an annoyingly recurring guest star. But she would go on. She's Eames. She would live. She'd probably be settled in all snug and comfortable with a new partner by December. Probably relieved that she didn't have to mop up anymore messes. He's always given her the shit jobs, he thinks, as he smokes the rest of his cigarette. She's let him though, and it confounds him, considering how she doesn't seem to take any shit from him personally.

It bothers him that she wants to know so much about him, asking about his mother, occasionally his brother. He doesn't want her to care about him, he doesn't want her invested in him anymore than she already was. She's barking up the wrong tree. She thinks there's something up there, but there's nothing but a couple of dead leaves clinging on for dear life. Yet he applauds the effort, nonetheless.

He doesn't want to go back in there, but he knows he's left her up shit creek, tossing her to the wolves while he makes a run for it. A temperamental director throwing his muse out on stage without her lines to an already cranky audience. They have to get this performance right. After all, it's his passion. And he takes comfort in that, it's one aspect of himself that's never scared him or let him down.

He feels a brief rush when he finally nails that little fucker. Like a nice, quick, but short-lived high. He's surprised by how quickly Ross and Dockerty seem to forget, almost as if his meltdown never happened. But he can't be too surprised. Man-code after all. His aggression is forgivable in their world.

She, on the other hand, is not as forgiving. She gives him the cold shoulder as soon as they're alone. Only speaking to him in bare, flat, dry language, clearly unappreciative and apathetic of his efforts, personal or case-related. He's noticed that she cleaned up his desk, picking up the stray files and books. He knows it was her because no one else would do it, other than that smart ass, lazy as fuck custodian, Johnny Marks (besides, he'd bummed a cigarette off of him outside earlier).

He's too tired to chase after or apologize to her. When he comes down from his high of justice, and after watching another man crumble before him, he feels even worse. His phone vibrates, and it's his mother again, but he can't speak to her because everything must be resolved and Ross is babbling with faux congratulations and talks of paperwork. It's just all too much for him again. His partner hates him, his boss is riding him into exhaustion like broke down thoroughbred on it's last legs. His mother and his guilt demands that he get to the hospital right this second. He recognizes and welcomes that earlier urge to jump in front of the traffic, swirling into oblivion. Purged.

_"You want to fire me? Fire me, I don't care."_

 

* * *

 

"You can't lie to me! I'm a short timer here!"

They negotiated like professionals. This man, Mark Ford Brady is good. They have that innate understanding, and inexplicably instant connection with each other, much like he did with Nicole.

Later on, he thinks about how differently he would have grown up if he had Mark Ford Brady as a genuine father to him. He'd probably would have given Jo Gage a run for her money.

The thought of this man raping his young mother is enough to make him wish he had grabbed his neck and snapped it. What did his mother ever see in this man? Going by what he'd suggested (if it is to be believed), Bobby wouldn't be here without Brady. His mother wouldn't be out of her mind half the time without Brady. As far as he's concerned, Brady's entry into his mothers life was a lose/lose situation.

She was vibrant, beautiful, smart and funny. He wonders how things could have went if things had actually went her way, if the world had been kinder to her. He loved her, hated leaving her. Things had always been difficult, she alternated between cutting him down to size, and clinging to him as her only key to the outside world. Even through it all, there was still that fondness and connection there. He could felt that he could even understand her. She too, had tried to make the best out of life once. At times she could see himself in her.

_"I'll just tell you one thing, you're off this case."_

He remembers watching Ross trail off into the bullpen, pride hurt after his revelation of the truth. As far as Bobby was concerned, he was just stating the facts as is. He didn't know him, and no, he doesn't know how he feels or how he works. He wonders if half of his outburst was caused by his frustration with everyone, from distant family members, to doctors, to Eames telling him what he should do, or where he should be, how he probably felt. But overall, he doesn't feel too bad, Ross has had it coming, as far as he was concerned. Maybe he'd finally fire him.

He wasn't surprised to see Eames immediately go into action, cleaning up the mess, smoothing everything over, working her magic to no doubt secure him back onto the case. He didn't ask for her to do that, and it annoyed him that she did it as second nature. He felt like he was borrowing money from a particularly dumb and generous millionaire. At some point the money is gonna run out, and he won't have a damn pot to piss in to give to her.

He ruminates over Frank's absence. It's not surprising really, but he finds it insulting to their mother's memory. He supposes it's the final nail in the proverbial coffin as far as estrangement goes. But that's how their personal dynamics are. He's the black sheep, Bobby's the one who has to stay and do the hard work for the both of them. Bobby sometimes wishes he were the black sheep, less pressure that way, and you never disappoint. He's tired of taking care of things, he can barely take care of himself these days. He thinks maybe he and Eames have more in common than previously thought. He wonders if she wishes she were the black sheep too.

He hears a knock at the door.

A young 20 something soul, clad in brown and holding a clipboard asks for a Robert Goren. He gives him the clipboard to sign, exchanging it with a box 10 seconds later. It's a bit heavy as he shuts the door, bringing it to the table, slashing the thick tape with a kitchen knife.

A huge bottle of 18 year aged Glenfiddich. He reads the hastily scrawled letter:

Hey Bobby,

I thought this might be good to have around in case of an emergency, or for entertainment purposes, or whatever.

I finally bet it big over in Vegas, I beat all those fuckers 10 fold, you should of seen me man! Anyway, I don't have much time, my flight leaves in 15 minutes, so have fun, and tell mom I'm thinking about her.

Frank

He crumbles up the letter in to a million tiny pieces, as if Frank can feel it in some kind of voodoo-like sense of karma.

Things are never going to change with them. Frank cannot grow. He and Frank cannot grow. Their roles in life are permanent and set in stone. Their relationship is as tempestuous and toxic as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, things can only get worse.

In a way, he feels like he's already lost Frank years ago. It makes him feel a little more alone in the universe. Frank knows him better than almost anyone in the world, they have private in-jokes that only the two of them can understand the punchline of. Frank is the only one who knows how to make his favorite grilled cheese, which became a staple since Frank learned how to cook a the tender age of 7.

His phone rings, knocking him out of his flagellating trip down melancholy lane.

"Hey, I just wanted see how you're doing."

He smiles in recognition. Their roles are forever being reversed.

"I'm uh, doing ok, I'm just getting ready to go to bed, I'm exhausted really."

"Yeah, I'm getting ready to head that way too, there's nothing on tv."

"I haven't..watched anything..really." He sighs, he's got nothing to say.

"Well, I just wanted to phone you to say I finally finished The Kite Runner."

"Eames, I gave you that book 10 months ago."

"324 pages of tragedy and suffering, well excuse me. Though, I admit the end got me."

"Yeah, the ends pretty killer, what did you think of Amir?"

They end up talking until 2 am. He sleeps better than he has in a while. His mother's finally in peace, and his life is in pieces, but there's still a flicker of light there. For the first time an months, he genuinely smiles.


End file.
